


Bitter and Sweet

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Femslash, Genderswap, Haircuts, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Rule 63, genderbent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 18:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14338863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Newt gives herself a haircut.





	Bitter and Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> anyway i love fem!newmann and i love the idea of newt's hair changing over the years so look at that an emotional haircut fic
> 
> find me on tumblr @bae-science

The first thing Newt does once she gets the handcuffs off is take a shower.

She’s in Hermine’s room, because where else would she go?, wrestling her formerly 2,000 dollar dress over her head. Dried blood cracks and tumbles to the floor, the congealed sweat and dirt on her face smudging as the dress is pulled off.

Newt stumbles into the shower, turning the faucets and letting the first burst of cold water shock her skin. She flinches, tensing her shoulders as the sensation of freezing pins dropping onto her sends a shiver through her body. The water slowly turns to lukewarm, and Newt turns the knob as far left as it will go.

The hot water is heaven, scalding her skin and sending warmth right into Newt’s aching muscles. She lets out a little sigh of relief as the grime of the past few weeks slowly runs down the drain. The guards may have gone through the trouble of wiping the blood away, but Newt hasn’t felt clean in ages.

Newt shampoos her hair once, then twice, and scrubs her skin raw with Hermine’s nice lavender soap. It smells so different than the overly fancy oils and conditioners she used to use; simple and so very Hermine. Streams of water from her long, soaked hair run down her back, pooling at her feet and running brown, then clear down the drain.

She looks down at herself, disturbed to see her ribs beginning to show, and her once soft curves replaced by bruised skin and jutting bone. The Precursors fed her just enough to keep her alive, and Newt imagines she’s pretty far from a healthy weight. She had always wondered what it would be like to be “skinny”, but finds herself missing her softness. She feels too hard now, like a lump of coal halfway pressed to a diamond.

The hair on her legs and under her arms has grown back for the first time in years, and Newt feels a little more herself again already. Her father and Uncle never cared whether she shaved or not, but high-powered business executives have to look their best. 

 

The Precursors were far more careful to stay in control while shaving after the first time Newt tried to slice her arms open.

Newt stays in the shower for a few more minutes, reacquainting herself with her body. The hot water makes her skin itch, and the feeling of simply feeling again is strange at first. Newt wonders if she’ll ever be used to it again.

Finally, she turns off the water and steps of out the shower, dripping onto the mat and tiled floor. She grabs a towel from on top of the sink and dries herself off, taking care to be gentle with her hair and the more bruised parts of her body. Hermine had left a bottle of lotion on the counter, and Newt rubs it all over, the healing cuts stinging when touched.

Newt feels distant, as if she’s floating outside herself, but everything changes when she catches her reflection in the mirror.

Her hair used to be just below her shoulders, but it had grown longer in the past decade, straightened by the Precursors every day with surgical precision. Now it was long and curly again, tangled around her in a fuzzy brown waterfall. There’s heat damage on the ends, and some of it has fallen out from malnutrition, but it’s still wild and untamable again.

Her face looks different, too, hollowed in structure and gaze. Her cheeks are thinner, no longer as plump as they used to be. Her freckles are gone from days spent inside among computer screens, and her lips are cracked and dry. Newt can’t even recognize the look in her eyes anymore; they’re almost haunted and wild. She looks like a ghost. She looks like a demon. She looks like a woman who fought a thousand wars and lost every one of them. 

And yet.

There is still the faint promise of dimples nestled in her cheeks. Her nose still has that hump from where she broke it after running into a glass door. Her eyes are still a bright, summery green, dappled with brown like a lazy, sun-drenched day. They still hold a spark that says, “listen to me, I have a couple ideas and I would _love_ to share them with you”. The dark circles underneath them are nothing new; almost a familiar comfort from a lifetime spent up too late.

After all this time. After everything. It’s still her.

Newt fills something stirring in her gut, a swell of thunder and fire that runs through her veins and into her hands and into her heart. There’s a tightness in her chest that’s begging to be released, and without thinking, her hand winds itself in her hair.

Newt pulls open a drawer in the sink and rustles around haphazardly, yanking out a pair of kitchen scissors. Grabbing a section of hair just below her ear, Newt brings the scissors up and opens the blades. 

She takes a deep breath.

She cuts.

The first clump of hair falls to the floor, and Newt feels a sudden rush of glorious release. She grabs another section and sips, then another, watching the long brown strands fall away. With every close of the blades, a weight seems to float off her chest, tumbling down with her hair. She cuts, and cuts some more, until her hair falls just below her ears, tickling her cheeks in a curly, messy bob.

Newt grips the edge of the sink, chest rising and falling rapidly as she tries not to laugh hysterically. Shorn hair pools around her feet; she would clean it up later. For now she looks in the mirror and feels the tiniest smile creep across her face. Short hair. She feels almost like herself again.

Without warning, Newt feels a sob bubble up in her throat. It bursts out in a loud, broken cry, bending her over the counter as tears run down her face and splash into the sink. It feels like a crushing, yet comforting weight has been taken off her chest, and Newt mourns for the loss of it. 

The bathroom door slams open, Hermine bursting into the room with a worried look. “Newton!” she says, alarmed. “What are you doing- what’s wrong?”

Newt pushes herself up and turns slowly, still crying. She smiles. “Hey, Hermie,” she says softly, “I cut my hair.”

Hermine sighs and draws Newt into her arms, holding her close against her chest.

“It’s lovely, darling. You look…” she pauses. “You look just like yesterday.”


End file.
